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Preface page v AS THE SENIOR, if least deserving, of the authors, I shall open the narrative. Over many years I have searched for the point where myth and science join. It was clear to me for a long time that the origins of science had their deep roots in a particular myth, that of invariance. The Greeks, as early as the 7th century B.C., spoke of the quest of their first sages as the Problem of the One and the Many, sometimes describing the wild fecundity of nature as the way in which the Many could be deduced from the One, sometimes seeing the Many as unsubstantial variations being played on the One. The oracular sayings of Heraclitus the Obscure do nothing but illustrate with shimmering paradoxes the illusory quality of "things" in flux as they were wrung from the central intuition of unity. Before him Anaximander had announced, also oracularly, that the cause of things being born and perishing is their mutual injustice to each other in the order of time, "as is meet," he said, for they are bound to atone forever for their mutual injustice. This was enough to make of Anaximander the acknowledged father of physical science, for the accent is on the real "Many." But it was true science after a fashion. Soon after, Pythagoras taught, no less oracularly, that "things are numbers." Thus mathematics was born. The problem of the origin of mathematics has remained with us to this day. In his high old age, Bertrand Russell has been driven to avow: "I have wished to know how the stars shine. I have tried to apprehend the Pythagorean power by which number holds sway above the flux. A little of this, but not much, I have achieved." The answers that he found, very great answers, concern the nature of logical clarity, but not of philosophy proper. The problem of number remains to perplex vi us, and from it all of metaphysics was born. As a historian, I went on investigating the "gray origins" of science, far into its pre-Greek beginnings, and how philosophy was born of it, to go on puzzling us. I condensed it into a small book, The Origins of Scientific Thought. For both philosophy and science came from that fountainhead; and it is clear that both were children of the same myth. [n1 The Pythagorean problem is at the core of my Origins. My efforts came eventually to fruition in my Prologue to Parmenides of 1964 (reprinted in Reflections on Men and Ideas (1968), p. 80).] In a number of studies, I continued to pursue it under the name of "scientific rationalism"; and I tried to show that through all the immense developments, the "Mirror of Being" is always the object of true science, a metaphor which still attempts to reduce the Many to the One. We now make many clear distinctions, and have come to separate science from philosophy utterly, but what remains at the core is still the old myth of eternal invariance, ever more remotely and subtly articulated, and what lies beyond it is a multitude of procedures and technologies, great enough to have changed the face of the world and to have posed terrible questions. But they have not answered a single philosophical question, which is what myth once used to do. If we come to think of it, we have been living in the age of Astronomical Myth until yesterday. The careful and rigorous edifice of Ptolemy's Almagest is only window dressing for Plato's theology, disguised as elaborate science. The heavenly bodies are moving in "cycle and epicycle, orb in orb" of a mysterious motion according to the divine decree that circular motions ever more intricate would account for the universe. And Newton himself, once he had accounted for it, simply replaced the orbs with the understandable force of gravitation, for which he "would feign no hypotheses." The hand of God was still the true motive force; God's will and God's own mathematics went on, another name for Aristotle's Prime Mover. And shall we deny that Einstein's space-time is nothing other than a pure pan-mathematical myth, openly acknowledged at last as such? I was at this point, lost between science and myth, when.. on the occasion of a meeting in Frankfurt in 1959, I met Dr. von Dechend, vii one of the last pupils of the great Frobenius, whom I had known; and with her I recalled his favorite saying: "What the I hell should I care for my silly notions of yesterday?" We were friends from the start. She was then Assistant to the Chair of the History of Science, but she had pursued her lonely way into cultural ethnology, starting in West Africa on the tracks of her "Chef," which were being opened up again at the time by that splendid French ethnologist, the late Marcel Griaule. She too had a sense that the essence of myth should be sought somewhere in Plato rather than in psychology, but as yet she had no clue. By the time of our meeting she had shifted her attention to Polynesia, and soon she hit pay dirt. As she looked into the archaeological remains on many islands, a clue was given to her. The moment of grace came when, on looking (on a map) at two little islands, mere flyspecks on the waters of the Pacific, she found that a strange accumulation of maraes or cult places could be explained only one way: they, and only they, were both exactly sited on two neat celestial coordinates: the Tropics of Cancer and of Capricorn. Now let Dechend take over the narrative: "To start from sheer opposition to ruling opinions is not likely to lead to sensible insight, at least so we think. But anyhow, I did not start from there, although there is no denying that my growing wrath about the current interpretations (based upon discouraging translations) was a helpful spur now and then. In that, there was nothing that could be called a 'start,' least of all the intention to explore the astronomical nature of myth. To the contrary, on my side, having come from ethnology to the history of science, there existed 'in the beginning' only the firm decision never to become involved in astronomical matters, under any condition. In order to keep safely away from this frightening field, my subject of inquiry was meant to be the mythical figure of the craftsman god, the Demiurge in his many aspects (Hephaistos, Tvashtri, Wayland the Smith, Goibniu, Ilmarinen, Ptah, Khnum, Kothar-wa-Hasis, Enki/Ea, Tane, Viracocha, etc.). Not even a whiff of suspicion came to me during the investigation of Mesopotamian myth--of all cultures!--everything looked so very terrestrial, though slightly peculiar. It was after having spent more than a y e a r over at least viii 10,000 pages of Polynesian myths collected in the 19th century (there are many more pages available than these) that the annihilating recognition of our complete ignorance came down upon me like a sledge hammer: there was no single sentence that could be understood. But then, if anybody was entitled to be taken seriously, it had to be the Polynesians guiding their ships securely over the largest ocean of our globe, navigators to whom our much praised discoverers from Magellan to Captain Cook confided the steering of their ships more than once. Thus, the fault had to rest with us, not with Polynesian myth. Still, I did not then 'try astronomy for a change' -there was a strict determination on my part to avoid this field. I looked into the archaeological remains of the many islands, and there a clue was given to me (to call it being struck by lightning would be more correct) which I duly followed up, and then there was no salvation anymore: astronomy could not be escaped. First it was still 'simple' geometry-the orbit of the sun, the Tropics, the seasons-and the adventures of gods and heroes did not make much more sense even then. Maybe one should count, for a change? What could it mean, when a hero was on his way slightly more than two years, 'returning' at intervals, 'falling into space,' coming off the 'right' route? There remained, indeed, not many possible solutions: it had to be planets (in the particular case of Aukele-nuia-iku, Mars). If so, planets had to be constitutive members of every mythical personnel; the Polynesians did not invent this trait by themselves." This text of Professor von Dechend, in its intellectual freedom and audacity, bears the stamp of her inheritance from the heroic and innocent and cosmopolitan age of German science around the eighteen-thirties. Its heroes, Justus von Liebig and Friedrich Woehler, were the objects of her work done before 1953. Another of those virtues, scornful indignation, will come to the fore in the appendices, which are so largely the product of her efforts. Now I resume: Years before, I had once looked at Dupuis' L'Origine de tous les cultes, lost in the stacks of Widener Library, never again consulted. It was a book in the 18th-century style, dated "An III de la Republique." ix The title was enough to make one distrustful--one of those "enthusiastic" titles which abounded in the 18th century and promised far too much. How could it explain the Egyptian system, I thought, since hieroglyphics had not yet been deciphered? (Athanasius Kircher was later to show us how it was done out of Coptic tradition.) I had dropped the forbidding tome, only jotting down a sentence: "Le mythe est né de la science; la science seule l'expliquera." I had the answer there, but I was not ready to understand.

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